


The Proteus Group

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BAMF John, Distopian Future, John is a Saint, M/M, Romance, Underground group
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the not so distant future a new government makes life for the citizens of England, and soon beyond, hellish. An underground (sometimes literally) group led by an injured army doctor plan to take down the government and restore order. Partway through the journey our hero meets his match in an arrogant chemist convinced he has the answer to their problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forward, Forewarned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



The problem began at first for a group of men and women that considered themselves pragmatists at heart in a small town east of Northumberland, and spread from there. Years earlier, so many that few remembered, a seemingly kind man with a small family had run for town leadership there. Once appointed he grew his power until it was beyond that of any one man. 

From the small town he moved to the big city. From the big city he took over the country. When he fell ill and ended up back in his home town he found that many living there disagreed with his policies, ones of exclusivity and strict codes of conduct. The peasants, as he saw them, were in a state of unrest. 

The underground group that had decided to kill him called themselves the Proteus group. They named themselves after the ancient God of the sea, said to control the changing current and foretell the future. The third property Proteus possessed was the power to change shape to avoid being detected. This was a property the group hoped to capture, changing locations and contacts on a whim.

The leader of the group was a man most wouldn't believe went against the government. He had, after all, been a soldier. By way of explanation he reminded the few that questioned this that he had been a healer, not a killer. He had joined the armed forces to help the soldiers fighting for their country, not take up the fight himself. He reckoned, he had to accept the world he lived in and heal the people in it. His acceptance changed when his sister was put to death for the crime of homosexuality. He decided to fight after that. He now had his own war. He was a good man, after all, a sort of moral compass. 

His name was John Watson, and this is the story of how he met the man that would help him take down the unjustly appointed ruler of the land.


	2. Doctor Watson

"Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson!"  The small boy yelled as he caught up to John. 

"Sam, I told you not to call me that! I'm not a doctor anymore." John answered. It still hurt, even after all these years. 

"Sorry, sir. It's just, my sister's fallen from a tree and her leg is broke real bad!" The boy said excitedly. 

John took a deep breath and looked around. The town, once a dilapidated refuge from the searching eyes of technology and therefore the government, was now littered with new cameras. The people were being watched closely now that their 'savior' was home. When he first came back people were angry. He brought with him the strict edicts of the capital and the swift punishment to go along with them. 

Ten people, two children among them, we're killed after the first protest. It worked to effectively silence the town people, at least on the surface. The protesters that were left were shipped to work camps far away and their families secretly took up John's cause. 

John had still been practicing medicine when the 'savior' came back, something outlawed for people who weren't government sanctioned, and suffered a strong beating and two months in jail for doing so. Now, even after everyone was told of how he'd suffered, people still came to him for help. He did what he could in dark rooms and back alleys. 

Just now there were two cameras tracking their movements, searching the boy's face and transcripting their conversation. John swallowed hard and searched his pockets. 

"Do you have any vouchers?" He asked, pulling out two crumpled papers and flattening them against his leg. 

"No sir. We used the last a few weeks ago when my father took ill." The boy said sadly. The sadness was justified as his father had died earlier that week. 

"These will cover it. Tell Sarah to stay out of trees from now on." John said with a soft smile. They were his last two vouchers, which meant that he wouldn't be able to get his physical therapy this week, but the girl needed them more and he could always go back to drinking for the pain. Alcohol was easier to get ahold of than medicine. 

"Thank you, sir." The boy replied, running back down the street. 

"You know sharing vouchers is illegal." A tall man in a fancy suit said from behind John. 

John sighed and turned around. "Mr Holmes. Are you here to take me in?" 

"I should." The man replied. "But I'm in need of your services." 

"What has he done this time?" John asked, rubbing his temples. 

"Some burns. Chemical. Quite troublesome. Will you come?" Mycroft Holmes asked. 

"Yes, fine." John replied, walking down the alley behind the man and slipping silently into the black sedan.


	3. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to help Mr Holmes' younger brother.

The sedan made its way down a long gravel road, coming to a stop in front of a familiar mansion. John followed Mycroft Holmes out of the car and back around the home to the small shack where Mr Holmes' younger brother lived. The genius refused to stay in the masiom that had been build only years before, for what reason John didn't know, and instead had (highly illegal) state of the art machinery and lighting installed in what must have at one time been a charming cottage. 

The charm had been stripped away by years of neglect just as the paint had. Now there were large pieces of corrugated plastic attached in places to keep the rain from leaking in and blankets covering the windows. The steps to the front door had long ago rotted away and been replaced by wooden wine boxes hastily nailed together. No one would suspect what lay inside. 

Mycroft walked to the front door and knocked. A loud crash came from within and the door swung open to show a seething and disheveled younger Holmes. Mycroft walked away without another word and John walked in. 

"Mr Holmes, the younger, how can I assist you today?" John asked calmly. 

Calm was hardly the normal response when presented with the man in front of him. This day had pulled him apart at the seams even more than usual. He was wearing a rumpled dressing gown over a pair of pajama trousers and nothing else. His hair was askew on one side, once again more than normal, and his eyes were angry. 

"If you continue to call me that I'll have to ask you to leave." Sherlock replied in a tetchy manner. 

John dropped the civil act now that the door was closed and Mycroft was out of their general proximity. 

"For God's sake, Sherlock! What did you do to yourself this time?" John asked with great exasperation. 

The mad man's lips quirked into a smile and he let his dressing gown fall away. There was a large bandage on his upper arm that had been arranged with what was obviously not Sherlock's dominant hand (as much as he liked to purport himself ambidextrous). He sat on the edge of the bed, the only tidy area in the whole cottage, and waited for John's clever hands. 

John went to the bathroom and got out his med kit. He washed his hands thoroughly and returned to sit carefully next to Sherlock on the bed. He peeled away the sticky plasticised paper and tried not to gasp. He frowned violently instead at the large gash and garish stitches. The skin swelled and puckered and let off the scent of early infection. 

"Your brother told me you had chemical burns." John said, getting out some povadone iodine and cleaning the wound. 

"My brother's an idiot." Sherlock replied shortly. When John raised his eyebrows he continued. "And the chemical burns are on my hand. Self inflicted, I'm afraid." 

"So that you could get me out here to see this...what was it...knife wound?" John asked. 

"Astute observation, John. You may not be a lost cause after all." Sherlock said with a gentle grin. 

"Thanks." John said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "You should have had me out earlier, Sherlock. This is becoming infected." 

"I was busy." Sherlock replied sternly (For how many times did he have to explain his ways to the doctor?). 

"Someday you'll be so busy you'll lose a limb." John replied, getting out the injectable antibiotic and a fresh syringe. 

"If you really want to watch after me better you should take me up on my offer." Sherlock replied as he observed John draw back 5cc's of the amber liquid. 

"I will not live in this squalor you call a home." John remarked as he screwed a new needle on the syringe and stuck it unceremoniously in Sherlock's upper arm. 

"That stings!" Sherlock hissed. 

"Well, I wouldn't have to poke you if you would just stop getting in knife fights with strangers." John said, setting the syringe aside and getting out a needle and thread. 

"It wasn't a stranger. It was the man stealing the goats from Sir Williams' farm." Sherlock said with a petulant scowl. 

"And what was this fellow's name?" John probed as he clipped all the stitches and used forceps to remove the stray pieces. 

"I don't know his name. He's in jail now, you can ask Lestrade." Sherlock replied. 

"So, he's a stranger. What have I told you about taking up stake in matters not your own?" John asked as he carefully cleaned out the discharge and readied his needle. 

"I'm not a child." Sherlock pouted. 

"No, you're a vigilante, and some day it's going to get you killed." John replied. "Now, hold still. This won't be pleasant." 

"Conversations with you aren't ever pleasant." Sherlock whined. "You be much more fun if you stopped-ouch-scolding me like an-ouch-indignant child!" 

"Stop acting like one and I'll stop scolding you."

"If I did, would you move in?" Sherlock asked as John continued to sew him up. 

"I'd have to see it to believe it." John said, tying a small knot and trimming the sutures. 

"I'd get in a lot less trouble if I had an assistant." Sherlock added as John spread some salve over the wound and applied a fresh bandage. 

"And then we'd both end up in jail. Is that what you want?"

"I could use the company. Lestrade has started refusing me reading material." Sherlock said as he stood and slipped the robe back on. 

"I thought conversations with me weren't pleasant." John said with a small laugh. 

"Who said I was looking for pleasant?" Sherlock asked, a look passing over his face that John couldn't name. (Desire? No. Impossible. Affection? No.) 

"I'd better get going." John said with a final sigh. 

"You won't stay for tea?" Sherlock asked. 

"Fine. But only tea. I haven't got all day to sit around and hear stories." John said, one part defeated, two parts relieved. 

"Good. You know how I like mine. Couple of biscuits too, if you can find them." Sherlock said, sitting back down at his microscope. 

"You're the one that invited me to tea. Did it ever occur to you that you should do some of the work?" When John got no response he went to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He really didn't have the time. He really should be going. 

"And John." Sherlock said from the front room. 

"Yes, Sherlock." John replied. 

"Bit of honey would do." Sherlock murmured. 

"Prick." John replied.


	4. Not Just A Phrase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, that would be telling.

Mycroft sat back in his chair and watched Dr Watson pour hot water into two mugs. He turned up the volume on the surveillance equipment he had installed in the cottage and waited for John to return to the front room. The doctor searched through the cabinets and found the biscuits his housekeeper had given Sherlock a few days ago. Mrs Hudson insisted that she was Mycroft's housekeeper, and not Sherlock's, but the woman seemed to have a soft spot for his brother. 

John walked to where Sherlock was tapping away on his laptop and set the cup down. Sherlock took it in his hand and sipped without looking up while John took a seat in the only armchair in the room and dunked a biscuit in his tea. 

Mycroft wondered how long it would be before Sherlock convinced the man to see him on his own. He was getting rather tired of having to come up with reasons to blackmail Dr Watson into returning home with him. He knew his brother was against most social norms but this was getting ridiculous. John should just move in, for God's sake. It was obvious that he was fairly addicted to Sherlock's company, no matter how he tried to hide it. 

He suspected that the reason the doctor wouldn't move in was because he thought Mycroft didn't yet know of his clandestine meetings with the townspeople over taking down their leader. He of course knew of the Proteus group, and their mission, and the only reason he didn't have John arrested and exiled was because he was secretly working on his own to overthrow the dictator from inside the government. 

His attention was drawn back to the screen when John spoke. 

"Are you just going to sit there and drink your tea in silence?" He asked agitatedly. 

Sherlock turned and looked John over, head cocked to one side. "I thought you weren't interested in conversation." 

"Don't gloat. Just tell me about the case." John said with a sigh. 

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he went to sit across from John on the bed. This was the only time Sherlock ever looked truly alive and it pained his brother to know these interactions were few and far between. 

"I staked out the property for three hours last Friday. I was able to find a good hiding place in a tree and the man drove up in his pickup truck with the lights off. When he got out I jumped and tackled him to the ground. He pulled a knife from his boot and got in a fairly good slash before I was able to subdue him. I tied him with a length of rope to the trucks front right tyre and made my way into town to give the cops an anonymous tip. They arrived at the payphone too late to find me and luckily Lestrade wasn't stupid enough to discount the call. Hardly a case at all. I didn't even use any deductive reasoning." When Sherlock finished he glanced up at John expectantly. 

"Besides knowing when the man would strike again. Genius." John said with a wide grin. 

Mycroft sighed and turned off the live feed. He'd had enough of these two imbeciles tiptoeing around each other for one day. 

\-----

The next week John ended up sitting in the hallway of the jailhouse in an uncomfortable plastic chair with what was quite possibly the worst cup of coffee he'd ever had the misfortune of drinking. Sherlock lay on the cot across from his silently (thank god) while DI Lestrade explained the charges. 

"You can't go around teaching the peasant children to read and write, Sherlock. You bloody know that." Lestrade said, running a hand through his short hair. 

John cringed at the phrase and he knew before he moved that Sherlock would holler about it. 

"Peasant children? I would expect more from you, Lestrade! Even an idiot such as yourself doesn't have to be a bigot." Sherlock hissed, thankfully low enough to not be heard by the less forgiving police officers in the precinct. 

"It's just a phrase, Sherlock. You know what I mean." Lestrade sighed. 

Sherlock stood and walked to the front of the cell. "Derogatory! They're no less children than those of the rich and powerful!" 

Lestrade shook his head and walked closer. "You know I feel the same, but I can't do anything but uphold the law." He whispered. 

"Even if the law is unjust?" Sherlock asked. 

"Even if. Now keep your voice down and visit with John until your brother comes to pick you up." Lestrade said. 

"I want a sandwich." Sherlock replied haughtily. 

"You don't eat." Lestrade said with a snort. 

"It's for John." Sherlock said as though it should be obvious. "He hasn't eaten today and I need him at full capacity if I wish to be successfully entertained." 

John decided to be grateful for Sherlock's attempt at taking care of him instead of pissed off over the implication that he was there as some sort of cheap circus act. Hell, it wasn't even an implication. 

Lestrade left the room and Sherlock lay back on the cot. John inched the chair forward and took out his phone. He tapped out a message to one of his friends, saying he couldn't have tea tonight and wishing his mother well. Murray would know that this meant he would have to run the meeting of the Proteus group that night and gave the signal that he understood;

SHE'S DOING WELL. I'LL SEE YOU FOR DINNER NEXT WEEK.  
MURRAY 

Lestrade returned with one of the pre-made sandwiches that came out of the vending machine up front and John handed him a few pounds. The bread was dry but the salami made up for it. John ate the sandwich in silence as Sherlock steepled his fingers below his chin and thought on god knows what.


	5. Thank You, Mrs Hudson

The next morning Sherlock rolled out of bed and groaned at the pulling of his stitches. He thought for a second about sabotaging their integrity, if just to see John again, but decided against it. He'd seen the doctor (yes, he'd bloody call him a doctor, thank-you-very-much) twice that week and didn't want to overwhelm him. He needed the idiot to just move in, but the lack of a second bedroom and the general uncleanness had kept that from happening. 

He walked half naked out the door, cold air biting viciously at his sensitive skin, and into the large mansion where his brother lived. He hated the place. It was built with what he considered to be blood money. It was constructed for Mycroft by his employer and was opulent in a way that always had rubbed Sherlock the wrong way. Even his childhood home, which was a monument in its own right, paled in comparison. 

He made it up to his brothers room and entered without knocking. It wasn't as though Mycroft would have anyone in bed with him, well anyone besides his loyal foxhound. The dog was already wagging its tail in a protective manner at the foot of the bed. 

"Julius, settle." Mycroft said with a yawn. 

The dog gave a sad sort of sound and lay its head back at his feet. 

"I need a second bedroom." Sherlock announced without preamble. 

"What time is it?" Mycroft asked. 

"I don't know. Some time before dawn. What does it matter?" Sherlock shot back. 

Mycroft sighed, knowing a conversation about decency wouldn't go over well. "You want me to hire someone to build a second bedroom onto an already structurally unsound building. No one will take that job on." Mycroft answered, running a hand through his short auburn hair. 

"So make them. That's what you do, isn't it? Make people do things they don't want to." Sherlock replied. 

"Sherlock, why don't you just move? That place has become a death trap. Mrs Hudson said-" Mycroft began. 

"No! I don't care if it's falling apart, I won't move in here. You can't make me." Sherlock hissed. 

Mycroft was tempted to bring up Sherlock's last statement, but didn't. "I'm not asking you to move in here. If you would ever let me finish a sentence you might hear something you like." 

"Doubtful." Sherlock grumbled. 

"Mrs Hudson's got a large house down the road. She has several bedrooms available and a large sitting room. I think she'd be amenable to your moving in. She seems to find you...charming." Mycroft finished. 

"Maybe...I'll think about it. Can she be trusted? I'd have to bring all my equipment! I can't stop my experiments just to be somewhere that doesn't leak."

"I trust her. Isn't that enough?" Mycroft answered. 

Sherlock sighed and walked from the room and Mycroft attempted to fall back to sleep. 

Downstairs Mrs Hudson was already in the kitchen making tea. She hummed quietly to herself as she got out the good china as well as an old chipped cup and saucer Sherlock knew she'd be using to serve him. He sat in a chair and watched as she made toast with too much butter (Mycroft) and soft-boiled an egg. She was just pouring the hot water when she noticed him there. 

"Oh! Heavens me! How long have you been sitting there spying on me, young man?" She asked as she rested a hand over her doubtlessly agitated heart. 

"A few minutes. Is the egg for me?" He asked. 

"You know it is. Only thing I can get you to eat. And there's tea for you as well. Here." She said, passing the egg cup over with a spoon and then the cup and saucer. 

Sherlock took his time peeling the top edge from the egg and eyeing her carefully. She was only the second person that he'd met that didn't seem to mind his idiosyncratic behavior. John, of course, was the first. Now that he thought about it, the two were very much the same. They seemed to have a need for scolding Sherlock, but not the wherewithal to care much beyond that. 

"And why are you watching me like that, love?" She asked as she fried up and egg and beans for Mycroft's breakfast. 

"I need a second bedroom and Mycroft refuses to make someone build it for me." He replied, wrinkling his nose and picking up his spoon. 

"Oh, for your doctor friend?" She said, whispering the word 'doctor' and smiling suggestively. "Are you sure you need a second bedroom? He seemed a bit interested." 

Sherlock frowned at her and she tutted. "Don't you worry about me, doll, I've never cared either way. I think you love who you love and behind closed doors, well-" 

"Thank you Mrs Hudson, that'll be enough." Sherlock said, cutting her off and waving a hand at her dismissively. 

She nodded and got everything ready on a tray to bring up to Mycroft. When she had it all organised she walked from the room, stopping just beyond the doorway, and turned a bit. 

"You can move in when you like, dear. I'll give you a deal on the rent if you promise to help me around the house every now and again." She said softly. 

"I don't help." Sherlock replied. 

Mrs Hudson smiled at him and left.


	6. You Disgust Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet our villain and find out why he's back in his home town.

The call came early the next day. Well, it wasn't a call, but a knock on the door. Mycroft was close enough to hear it straight away and went into the foyer to find one of their reigning chief's minions walking in. He frowned and the man let his lips curl back from his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. 

He had his fingers on the wall, probably leaving oily marks on the fine wallpaper, tapping away. It had the opposite of a calming effect on Mycroft, who now was stuffing his hands in his pockets to avoid the clenching he was bound to do as his fingers itched to strangle the small man. 

"You could have waited for me to open the door, you know." He said to the man. 

"His excellency pays your rent. Your home is government property." The man shot back. 

"What do you want?" Mycroft asked with an equally false smile.   
"Mr Wilkes wants some of your brother's time. I told him I'd fetch the boy." The man replied. 

Mycroft sighed and walked with the man into the front sitting room. He left through to the back of the house as the obnoxious man helped himself to his best brandy. If ever there were a reason to kill a man it must be over the pilfering of brandy. Mycroft's fingers itched further. 

He tucked his anger away deep inside his mind as he walked to get Sherlock. He knew his brother would be ornery at best, and he needed to refrain from fratricide. Two murderous thoughts in one morning, it was going to be a long day. He steeled himself and knocked on the front door. 

Sherlock opened it wearing a rumpled suit and frowning. "What?" 

"His 'excellency' requests your presence." Mycroft purred. 

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Mycroft, don't call him that! Sebastian is hardly the model of excellence." Sherlock spit back with a dramatic roll of his eyes. 

"None the less, you are called upon." Mycroft countered. 

"Why should I go. It's just so he can remind me about how much more popular he was than me in uni. Funny how now he has to threaten people for company." Sherlock said with a huff. 

"Get ready to go. You should really brush you hair, can't have you going to the palace looking like a tramp." Mycroft said with a smirk. 

"I hate you." Sherlock replied, walking around his brother and towards the mansion. 

"You don't mean that." Mycroft replied calmly. 

Sherlock simply grumbled to himself and stomped along. He really could emulate a child. 

\-----

The car came up to a huge mansion fifteen minutes later and Sherlock got out, making sure to slam the door, and walked up the rocky path. Sebastian's chauffer opened the front door for him and walked him into a back room. 

The blinds were drawn and a sickly looking man was reading by the fire. Sherlock sighed and took the seat beside him. He wouldn't admit, even to himself, that the warmth of the fire was preferable to the frigid air in his own home. After all, the company here was enough to make a chill run down one's spine. 

"Remember when we used to fuck?" Sherlock asked, putting emphasis on the last two letters. 

Sebastian glanced over with that strange smile of his and looked Sherlock up and down. "You look like you live in a cave." He said in a snide fashion. 

"And you look like you've got lymphoma." Sherlock shot back. "Oh, right, that's because you do." 

"Must you always be so cruel, Sherlock?" Sebastian tutted. 

"Must you always be so hypocritical?"

"And how am I a hypocrite?" Sebastian demanded, coughing a bit in a handkerchief. 

"Must I always repeat myself? Remember. When. We. Used. To. Fuck?"

"What about it?"

"You'd have me sent to some work camp for that now. Or would you just have me put down like a dog?"

"Are you still tender over John's sister? She didn't have to incite a riot at the facility. She could have worked off her time." Sebastian said with a downward curl of his lips. 

"You disgust me." Sherlock hissed. 

"I believe that's the exactly the phrase I used after our last...liason."

This made Sherlock shut his mouth and turn away. 

"Read to me for a while." Sebastian said, handing over his book. 

Sherlock took it and began to, knowing full well Sebastian would raid his home if he didn't. He mentally scoffed at the first line. 

"A squat black telephone, I mean an octopus, the god of our Signal Corps, owns a recess in Berlin..."


End file.
